Drunken Shenanigans with Jaime and Brienne
by BrienneofThrace
Summary: All Jaime wants is ONE night where Brienne agrees to get roaring drunk with him. That's what friends are for, isn't it? Canon compliant, Post-ADWD fluff.
1. Chapter 1

Jaime tries to get her to drink with him every time they stop in a tavern.

It isn't often that they do and he finds it a great injustice that Brienne refuses to join in with his alcohol consumption on these occassions. They so infrequently are fortunate enough to find a safe place to spend the night as they journey North. And she flat out refuses to partake in a little fun.

It pains him that she won't let her guard down for even a few hours to be his drinking companion. She's too bloody serious and always has been.

Even when Jaime deems the risk to be low enough to indulge in a few flagons of mead or cups of wine, Brienne is always on edge, shrewdly watching everyone and everything with those alert blue eyes of hers, her shoulders tense and her hand never far from the hilt of her blade.

She sometimes takes a cup of ale when she doesn't trust the water, but sips it so slowly that she can't possibly feel any effect from it, and feeling the effects is the whole bloody point of drinking!

Though the wench shoots him down _every single time_, Jaime can't resist asking her to get drunk with him every single time they stop at an inn anyway.

He's relentless, and though Brienne never consents to a drinking session, he never stops asking. It's become a part of their routine and Jaime rather enjoys it.

Perhaps it's because, despite her obvious frustration at being pestered, the corners of her mouth tend to twitch in a way that tells him she's not really angry, that she might even find his begging endearing in its own annoying way. He likes the way her eyes sparkle when she rolls them at him, so he keeps it up, even if it always goes down in the same basic way.

Usually when they find an inn to drink at, Brienne sits quietly in a corner with Sansa and Podrick Payne until bedtime. Some nights, eager for a bit of gossip and excitement, Jaime makes friends with rowdy drunks, glad to be spending the night in a warm, noisy tavern instead of the frozen northern wilds.

If Brienne is in a particularly good mood, he is sometimes able to bring Pod into his shenanigans, but that is a rare occurrence and she usually casts dark looks at him for days after, especially if there's an increase in the boy's use of inappropriate words after.

On other nights, Jaime sits with them, telling stories that make Pod chuckle, Sansa titter prettily into a handkerchief, and Brienne look at him scoldingly.

On rarer nights, the tired young ones go to bed early, and he gets her to himself for a while. That's when his pestering is at its' peak.

It's a rare occurrence but he takes advantage of the opportunity whenever it comes up.

Usually, when Sansa announces that she is tired and ready for bed, Brienne will stand to go upstairs with her.

_But if Jaime cuts in with a "What? You're going to leave me down here... alone and drunk? What if someone is _mean _to me? I can't defend myself with just one hand, wench_!" the sharp young Stark girl will come to his rescue.

When he plays that card, Sansa Stark will usually give him a shrewd look for a long moment and earnestly convince Brienne that she is fine going up alone and insist that Brienne stay with Jaime a while.

And she does, because Brienne does whatever Sansa bloody asks. Jaime often wonders what her bloody secret is and how he can get it out of her.

Of course, Jaime's not sure he likes the knowingly superior way the young Stark girl looks at him at times like that, like she knows something the rest of the world is too stupid to figure out, but as she's quite adept at trapping Brienne into keeping him company, Jaime is mostly grateful to the girl.

Jaime is a happy enough drunk, and he enjoys spending time with her, even if she won't partake in drinking with him. He likes sitting beside her, likes telling her stories and jokes (the few clean ones he knows), likes the way her blue eyes sparkle when he gets a rare laugh out of her.

He likes being a little fuzzy-headed around her, even if she's sober, because he can allow himself to take little steps towards intimacy he can't quite manage when he's sober.

He likes that he can let their legs touch under the table and pretend it's only the drink making him clumsy and uncoordinated.

He likes that he can pretend Brienne allows it, not just because she's naturally patient, but because maybe she _likes_ the feel of their legs pressed against one another as much as he does.

He likes that he can let it stay pressed up against hers without a nagging voice telling him to pull away.

He likes that when he's drunk, it doesn't seem quite so absurd to be harboring a growing attraction towards _(a growing need for)_ his fellow warrior, his comrade-in-arms, his big, homely, disgustingly noble _friend._

Whenever Jaime gets her alone, he starts his pestering. He begs her to have just a little more and they have the same repetitive arguments about it on many a night. He never expects her to agree, but he enjoys the arguments anyway.

"Go on, wench," he'll say, pushing his tankard towards her. " Live a little. We could die at any moment-"

"Yes, we could," she'll say, pushing it back towards him. "We could die in this _very tavern_ if we're not alert. Sansa is my responsibil-"

"She's our responsibility, wench-"

"_Brienne_-"

"Our responsibility, _Brienne_, and if that's the issue, I will gladly volunteer to stay sober for an evening and allow you to drink to your heart's content," Jaime offers.

"My heart would be content not to take in substances that make me act like a _fool,_" she'll reply.

"Act a fool? Wait- are you implying that when I drink_ I_ act a fool?" He'll ask with a grin.

"Yes," she'll say, stonefaced.

"You're no bloody fun," he'll reply, when they burn themselves out on the same old arguments. "Play cards with me then, you dour thing."

"No. You always cheat."

"I do not," he'll protest, mouth wide open in an over-the-top display of indignance.

"Yes you do. And you think you're getting away with it because you're a drunk fool," she'll say, and then there'll be that revealing little mouth-twitch that tells him she's having fun, even if she'll never admit it.

Those are the moments that make this all worth it. The fear for their lives, the terrible nights sleeping in the dirt that are a constant reminder that he's getting old, the frigid and unforgiving bite of the Northern winter...they are all worth it when he gets those little indicators that the wench _likes_ him. That he can make her laugh and that her journey to fulfil her oath is a little easier because he's here with her.

But she_ still _never agrees to drink with him.

Once, to vary things a bit, Jaime brings over two flagons to the table where she's sitting and puts one down in front of her.

"There. I bought you a drink. Be polite and drink it," he says standing behind her.

"No," Brienne says, craning her neck around to glare at him. "_You_ be polite and do not buy me things I do not ask for, things which you know very well I do not want."

Jaime grins at her fierce response.

"Come, wench," he says soothingly, squeezing her shoulder with his good hand and giving it good hard massage before she reaches back to swat him away. He laughs and removes his hand from her shoulder before she can hit him.

"You need to loosen up," he says, waiting a moment before squeezing her shoulder again. He rolls his fingertips against her muscular back and finds it full of hard knots.

Brienne stiffens and freezes for a moment. Jaime grins and he takes her stunned surprise as a window to keep on rubbing at her tense back. He leans close into her ear and whispers, "Just _look_ at all this tension. See? You carry the weight of the world on your-"

"Get off!" she hisses, finally snapping out of the trance he'd held her in, swatting blindly behind her and aiming for his face. Jaime dodges away before she can backhand his nose and probably break it with those massive hands of hers and he lets out a hearty chuckle.

His laugh fades though, when he realizes how much he'd really like to keep rubbing the knots from her strong back, to hear her let out soft sounds of pleasure as her stress melts away beneath his fingertips.

He feels a sudden longing to lay Brienne flat on her stomach, to rub all the tension from her freckled, nude back, making her arch against his palm as he used to do for Cersei when she'd had a particularly frustrating day.

_I had two hands then_, he thinks with some bitterness. _I'd do a poor job of it, even if the dour wench allowed it._

Jaime moves back to her ear and says, "One day, I am going to see you drunk, wench," and darts away before she can swipe at him again.

She turns in her chair to face him, her expression firm.

"Today is not that day."

They are a day's ride from reaching Jon Snow and the Northern armies, if the word from the innkeep can be trusted, and Sansa is asleep upstairs. Pod has volunteered to keep watch at her door. The boy had grown quite attached to her over time, and though Brienne had insisted she could do it, a pointed look from Jaime made her back down, though she seemed confused as to why. _Let him have his time with her_, Jaime thinks. _She'll be nestled back in the North soon enough. _

It's a rowdy tavern, full of singing drunks and the stench of potent drink.

"Come on, wench. Your little Stark girl is safely tucked away in bed. She'll be back with her bastard brother by this time tomorrow. We've fulfilled our bloody oaths, traipsing from one end of the country to the other to do so," Jaime says dramatically, waving his arms about. "We've bled and starved and _fought like the warriors of old_! We've laughed and cried! We've vanquished mighty foes and saved innocents from fearsome fates! We're bloody _heroes_, Brienne. The least you can do is have a damned drink with me!"

Brienne stares at him stonily for a moment.

"I believe you've already had more than enough drink for the pair of us," she says wryly, glancing pointedly at his empty flagon.

"Nonsense! That was only my second drink! I'm hardly drunk. Sometimes, Brienne, people are just_ happy._ I don't suppose a dour wench like you would know anything about that though," he smirks.

Something flickers across her features that he isn't sure he recognizes, but it may be sadness and he doesn't want that.

He was only trying to antagonize her into drinking with him, but even his most genuine intentions have a way of getting off track, and he winds up with his foot in his mouth and Brienne looking like a wounded doe, making him feel like a prize fool.

He doesn't want her hurt.

He wants to have fun with her because his bones are tired but he's _not dead yet _and they deserve to be happy. He's done lots of atoning and he's set to do a hell of a lot more before this journey is through, but he thinks a happy intermission is well deserved before the next stage of their quest.

They've already planned it.

Once Sansa's safe, they're going after the younger Stark girl.

Jaime is set to sail across the narrow bloody sea on this road to redemption, but for a night- just one night- he just wants to forget their obligations and have a laugh with Brienne.

He reaches his hand across the tavern table and says, "Sorry. I didn't mean...I just meant...I could _show_ you what it's like, wench, being happy. It's not nearly so bad as you might think," he says with an easy smile. She stares back at him with those startling blue eyes, and there's heat and intensity between them. He's never quite prepared for these moments and tends to brush them aside as quickly as they come. He quirks his head to the side and grins, shattering the moment.

"A mug of ale might help us along though. Go on, have a drink with-"

She pulls her hand out of his grasp before Jaime can really get a hold of hers and he frowns.

"I'll be happy enough once Sansa's in safe hands at last," she says, her expression serious.

Jaime scowls grumpily for a moment.

Then he gets an idea and his green eyes flash with mirth.

"Happy enough to... share a celebratory drink with the poor, old cripple who's followed you through hell so you can uphold your bloody vows?" he asks, grinning hopefully.

Brienne lets out an exasperated sound that's half-laugh, half-sigh. "Is it _really_ so important to you that I join you in your drunken debauchery?" she asks with a note of incredulity.

"Yes, wench, it is! And it's not debauchery to have a few flagons of ale with a friend after you've accomplished the impossible! Soldiers drink together after a victory, Brienne. And we've had a bloody slew of victories on this mad journey and naught but water's passed those lips of yours. We've come out on top when we should have been dead and buried a dozen times. We're about to have our greatest victory of all. We're about to fulfil our vows! We've been a fine pair of warriors, Brienne. We _deserve_ a celebration. Go on, wench. Say you'll celebrate with me."

She stares stonily.

"Come on," he pleads. "Celebrate with me. Please."

"Fine," she sighs. "_When_ we have returned Sansa to the Starks, I will celebrate with you."

"With drinking?" he asks, smiling like a boy.

"With drinking," she says with a such an air of defeat that he has to refrain from rolling his eyes.

She sounds as though she's agreeing to fight a bear without a weapon again, rather than agreeing to have a bit of fun for once in her miserable life.

"You have to promise to drink enough to feel something," he adds seriously.

She looks highly reluctant and starts to say, "I do not understand why you-"

"Promise, wench. You gave Hyle bloody Hunt half your gold just for getting us halfway North and turning back with his tail between his legs when his balls couldn't take the cold. I've come all the way to the top of this frozen hell with you and all I ask is that you get properly drunk with your loyal companion when we've seen it through. One small, small favor from a maid to show her appreciation for my selfless, noble-"

"Alright!" Brienne cries in frustration. "I'll do it."

"Promise?" he asks.

"I _promise_. Just- just shut up about it."

"Excellent!" Jaime grins.

Then because he can't resist pushing his luck and winding her up, he extends his flagon as says, "How about a toast to your surprising agreeability?"

Brienne ignores it, save for a withering stare.

"No. _Goodnight_, Jaime," she says, rising from the table as he chuckles heartily, far too pleased with himself as usual.

"Bah. Come back, wench. Just because you're not drinking doesn't mean you have to leave me all alone," he sniffs.

"I'm going to _bed,_ Jaime. You ought to do the same. We've an early start tomorrow and I've no qualms about dousing you with ice water if you cannot rise on your own."

"I'm a big lad. I'll go to bed when I'm bloody ready, _mother._"

"Suit yourself. But as I say, no qualms."

Jaime lets her go, grinning broadly throughout the night as he envisions the celebration to come.


	2. Chapter 2

They find Jon Snow and the Northern armies at last, and the relief that washes over them all is palpable.

When they walk into the Lord Commander's tent behind Sansa Stark and watch his jaw drop as he takes in the sight of Sansa, he can feel Brienne's shoulders sagging with relief.

For a while, the half-siblings only stare at each other. Jaime had once heard Sansa confessing to Brienne that she had been unfairly cold towards her half-brother. Sansa had quietly expressed her nervousness at the thought of seeing Jon again after so long, and Jaime, not wanting to eavesdrop on such a conversation, decided that would be a good moment to go look for some firewood.

When the silent staring between Sansa and Snow goes on for a bit too long, Jaime begins to wish he could slip away to gather wood again, or do _something_ to get away from this distinct discomfort.

There is something perverse, he thinks, about bearing witness to the reunion of the last surviving members of a broken family his has been so instrumental in breaking.

Jaime is just starting to seriously consider fleeing, when two things happen:

Jon and Sansa take large, fast steps towards each other and meet in a crushing, wordless embrace… and Brienne gently slips a large hand into his and gives it a tight squeeze.

The combination instantly erases all Jaime's urges to flee, as a painful yet pleasant tightness forms in his chest.

Jaime and Brienne exchange courtesies with Snow when the half-siblings have pulled apart.

Jon looks at Jaime with the sort of judgmental suspicion that makes him want to give the boy a smack with his golden hand.

Fortunately, Sansa, clever girl that she is, senses the rising tension and rushes to sing Jaime's praises. Snow's look of suspicion gives way to weariness and acceptance as he takes in her words. He looks far older than he is, Jaime thinks. The war has taken its' toll on Snow as well, it thanks them for their service and provides them with the best accommodations he can muster.

Though a flicker of panic crosses Brienne's features when it comes time to let Sansa out of her sight, she leaves without protest.

They stay in the Stark camp for a week as Snow makes arrangements for Sansa to be escorted back to Winterfell, which is far enough along in the process of being rebuilt that it is fit for a lady.

Brienne is not so quiet then. She insists on meeting each of of the Stark bannermen who will be accompanying the Stark girl. Snow is indulgent and his dark eyes twinkle in amusement as Brienne intimidates even the toughest-looking Northerners as she stares them down, determining whether she sees fit to trust them.

On the last day, Pod surprises them by announcing that he wishes to go to Winterfell in service of Sansa Stark.

As soon as he says it, Jaime's eyes snap to Brienne's face, and he catches all her conflicted emotions, though she works hard to mask them.

There's relief- relief that someone she truly trusts will remain at Sansa's side as she and Jaime go off in pursuit of the (probably dead) Arya Stark.

But there's also poorly concealed anguish. She was already hurting at the thought of leaving Sansa. Now she would lose her young squire as well. Jaime can see the heartbreak in her large eyes and he hates it, but there's nothing he can do.

And so it's down to the two of them again.

Sansa bids them goodbye, real hope in her Tully-blue eyes as she gives them a purse full of coin and tells them she truly believes they'll find her sister, and off they go again, heading for the seaside to buy passage across the narrow sea.

Jaime gives it a week of travel before he decides it is time to cash in on a promise.

Brienne has done nothing but mope since they left the Stark company and he will not stand for it another night.

She promised him a celebration and he's going to get one.

Brienne looks tired and morose when he approaches her, just as she has since they left Sansa and Pod behind.

He slides into his seat at the tavern across from her holding two foaming flagons of ale.

"I'm collecting on that promise now, wench!" Jaime says. "You've been looking far too bloody glum for someone who has done the impossible! You saved Sansa. You brought her home. And now you're going to celebrate that victory, because there aren't many of those to go around these days and succcess in the face of such odds _ought_ to be celebrated."

"Ugh," Brienne says, eyeing the drink he slides toward her. "You... remember that conversation?"

"_Remember_ it? I haven't forgot it for a _moment_, wench. I've just been biding my time. Drink up now, dear Oathkeeper. Keep your bloody oath." he says, eyeing her drink pointedly.

"But I-"

"Drink!" he says, clashing his flagon against hers and making it foam up even more. "Go on! Before it spills!"

Scowling, she picks it up and sips at the overflowing sides to try and control the mess. Then she sets it down, glaring at him.

"Remember," he admonishes. "You've got to get properly drunk. Tiny baby sips like that won't get you there," Jaime grins smugly.

Scowling, Brienne reaches for her tankard and takes another sip.

"This is stupid," she says, glaring at him over the top her drink.

After the first drink, Jaime hasn't learned anything new about Brienne.

She's clear-eyed and wary and hasn't lightened up at all. She still seems annoyed that he's made her follow through with her promise and overall, their conversation has been less than thrilling so far.

But Jaime is not ready to give up yet.

"Shall I order us another round?" he asks, smiling benignly.

"You can order another for _yourself,_ if you wish. I believe I'm finished."

"_Finished_?" he gasps, clutching his heart. "Wench, you've barely _begun_!"

"I said I'd drink with you, and I have," she sighs. "Let me go to bed."

"False. You said you'd celebrate with me, wench. Believe me, I memorized every last detail of the evening when you made that promise. It hardly counts as a celebration if you're still as dour as ever. One drink for a maid your size is nothing and the rules were you had to drink enough feel something!"

"I _do_ feel something. _Irritation_," Brienne says and Jaime lets out a bark of laughter.

"Very funny, wench, but you'll not distract me with your little jokes. Have another drink, and see if we can't get a smile on that scowling face."

She doesn't have time to argue, because the barman has just come over with two more full flagons of ale. He gives them both a wink and heads back to the bar.

"Waste not, want not, wench," he says, sliding it over to her. "Drink up."

By the time she's done with her second drink, Jaime's learned that Brienne of Tarth has the sort of giggle that can only be described at_ cute_, and that once she gets going, she finds it difficult to stop.

He can't even remember what got her laughing this time, but every time he thinks she's got herself under control Brienne will let out another little snort and splash ale on the table and even though he can't remember what's funny, Jaime is laughing along with her.

When her hand comes to down absently to clutch his arm as she laughs, Jaime can't help but smirk down at it.

"Is that _affection_ I'm seeing from you, wench? Gods, that drink must be going straight to your head."

She stops laughing snatches her hand back, furiously. "_What_? No it hasn't! I hardly feel a thing!"

"I find that hard to believe. I've never known you to be so... free with your hands." he glances at her other hand, which has been comfortably resting on his elbow for quite a while now.

Apparently Brienne hadn't even noticed its' placement , because when he draws attention to it, she lets go immediately, glaring at him.

"I'm not being...free with my...you're the one who's being foolish here. You're drunker than I am!"

Jaime highly doubts that, but he is thoroughly amused by her adamant belief in the statement.

"Is that a_ challenge_, my lady? You think you can outdrink me, when you've never had more than a glass of wine with your dinner?"

She frowns and crosses her arms, "I _am_ bigger than you."

"Barely!" he snorts. "Let's be realistic, wench. I'd drink you under the table without before I even got dizzy."

The words have the just the effect he'd expected. He knows she's got a competitive streak leagues wide, and she's just tipsy enough to believe she can take him.

"Barman!" she shouts, draining her flagon and slamming it down on the table. "Some mead, if you please!"

By the time she's mostly done with her _third_ drink, he's learned quite a bit more about her thanks to the introduction of a clever little drinking game.

"Damn!" Brienne curses and Jaime chuckles softly as a copper coin goes flying past his ear and smacks into a hulking man sitting behind him.

He gets up to retrieve the coin and apologizes to the huge man, who is so drunk he probably didn't even feel it, and waves him away gruffly.

He picks the coin off the floor and comes back to a sour-faced Brienne.

"You missed, wench. Again."

"This is...this is stupid!" she says, and her arms cross over her chest.

"It's not _stupid_. You're just _bad_ at it. There's a difference." Jaime grins.

He's enjoying himself thoroughly. They have been playing this game, which involves flicking a coin into your opponent's flagon for quite a while now.

Brienne started off being rather terrible at it, and has gotten progressively worse as she's been required to down more mead each time he's landed his coin in her tankard.

It's pleasing, to be better than her at something.

"Well then?" he asks, arching an eyebrow after she glumly drains her drink. "Tell me a secret, Brienne. Something you've never told me before!"

That's another rule to their game. She missed, and now she needs to share.

So far he's learned all sorts of interesting and hilarious things about the wench.

She's afraid of spiders, for one. (That tidbit had provided him a fun opportunity to run his hand up her leg in imitation of a many-legged critter, and earned him a slap).

She also admitted that as a child, she believed cows produced black if you milked them at night because one of her father's men had convinced her it was true. Jaime's sides were aching by the time she finished telling him of her septa's reaction to catching her in the act.

He's ready for the next bit of truth she will offer, now that she's missed his flagon once again.

"This isn't _fair_!" she pouts, looking so young and girlish that Jaime almost feels guilty about plying her with so much drink. "You haven't had to tell me _anything_."

"Land your bloody coin in my cup for once and I will," He smirks and she scowls. "But for now, tell me a secret, wench. It's not like you to break the rules."

She's quiet for a moment, rubbing her temples and thinking. Her movements are unfocused and he knows she's beginning to feel the effects of both ale and mead.

She stops rubbing her temples then and blushes, eyes downcast, and Jaime knows she's thought of something good.

"Oooh! You've got something, haven't you?"

"I...it's not," she stammers. "No...no I don't-"

"Oh, come on! We've been through hell together, my lady. There ought to be nothing you can't tell me."

"Fine," she says, breathing deeply like she's bracing herself for battle.

"This is," she pauses, looking at the table bashfully. "This is something I...something I _liked_ that I may not have...may have never made clear to you..."

"Oh?" he asks, genuinely curious now about where she might be going with this. Even while telling the cow story, she hadn't seemed quite this shy.

"D'you remember when...do you remember when you hit Ser Hyle?"

"How could I forget?" he asks, a bit startled. They haven't spoken of it since, but he thinks about it often enough.

His knuckles had been sore for days from that punch, but his ego had been sore a good deal longer at her total lack of appreciation.

"Well, I know I may have...scolded you quite a bit for it-" he snorts loudly at that drastic understatement.

"Wench, my bloody ears nearly crawled off my head rather than hear another word about '_the foolishness fighting amongst ourselves with the world against us_'' and '_being a good example to Podrick and Sansa_'."

"Yes, well, there _was _much truth to what I said," she says, and it's his turn to scowl at her. She gives him a wary look before continuing, "but I was- well I suppose I never told you this, but I was...I was rather touched by the whole thing."

"Were you?" Jaime asks, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. She's looking at him shyly through enormous blue eyes and he's grinning like a fool because even though it was bloody months ago that's all he ever wanted to hear.

"Yes," she says, smiling back. "It was rash and impulsive and... not a terribly good idea to bring more tension into our group but..m I appreciated the gesture, ill-advised as it was."

Jaime flushed under the warm way she was looking at him and mumbled, "You might have said so at the time."

"I know," Brienne says with a little smile. "But I was also angry."

"You're_ always_ angry," Jaime laughs.

When a serving wench comes over a moment later and asks if they're ready for more, Jaime says yes before she's even finished her sentence. He likes the way this mead is loosening her tongue and is mad to know what other secrets might be revealed this night.

Knowing that she appreciated his defense of her honor has him glowing from the inside out. He feels like a fool, but a happy one.

"We can switch games if you like, my lady," he says when two fresh flagons have been placed before them.

"What?" Brienne asks in outrage. "No, we've got to keep playing until I land one!"

"Wench, you've been getting worse by the minute, and I can't afford to keep playing this game until spring," he jokes, laughing when she looks just as affronted as he expected she would.

"No. No, Jaime, I am going to prove you wrong. _This_ one," she says seriously, her words a bit slurred together. "_This_ one will be my lucky shot. You just watch."

She carefully lines up her coin with his flagon and spends a full minute preparing to make the shot before hitting him directly in the eye with it.

"Ouch!" he cries as she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

When he's done rubbing at his eye, he shakes his head and says, "Look at that. Time to give up another secret, Brienne!"

She throws her head back and groans, giving him a rather nice view of her throat. His tongue flickers out over his lips as she shakes her head.

"I'm all out of secrets. I can't think of any."

"Come now. You've probably got more secrets than most people in this world. All those walls you've got built up," he mutters, and thinks maybe his head is starting to swirl a bit. with the way he's talking.

"I miss Sansa," she sighs. "And Pod."

Jaime scoffs. "That's hardly a secret. You've done nothing but brood about it since we left Winterfell. This night is supposed to be _fun._"

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just, they've come into my head again and I'm just so _worried_. Perhaps we should have stayed with her. Would it not be wiser to stay at the side of the Stark we found, rather than leaving her to pursue the ghost of a whisper about her sister?"

Jaime shrugs. Hells if he knows.

Then he sees the pained look on her face and sighs, putting his hand over hers. "No. No Brienne. We've done right. She'll be safe with the Northerners. And she has Pod to look after her. You've turned him into quite the swordsman and he clearly loves the girl. He'll see that no harm comes to her."

Brienne drops her flagon at the word 'love.' "What did you say?"

Jaime shrugs again. "Quite obvious, I thought. She's a beautiful young woman, and she was kind to him. Doesn't take much more than that for a boy his age to fall hard for a woman."

To his surprise, Brienne looks dismayed. "Oh, Pod. Oh, how terrible," she says quietly.

"Terrible?" Jaime asks, confused. He'd always thought the wench a fierce romantic and can't see why she's bothered.

"If he...if he truly loves her, then yes, it is terrible. He's just a lowly squire from a lesser house. She's the Queen in the North. He'd be doomed to always want something he could never have. I wouldn't want that for him," Brienne says, sadly. "I know what it feels like. I've been ther-"

She stops, suddenly looking mortified, but it's too late.

They both know what, or rather who, she meant.

Renly.

Jaime is surprised by the intense flair of anger and jealousy he feels at the man, long dead, for invading his night with the wench.

It's akin to the jealousy he felt every time he watched Robert stumble towards his sister at a feast.

"Gods, you're on about bloody _Renly_, aren't you?" he snaps, even though the gentlemanly thing to do would be to ignore her slip and smoothly glide past it.

"No, I-"

"Of course you are," he says, more gruffly than he ought to. "I'm sorry it happened that way for you, but don't you get all...weepy over it. His loss, right? He'd have been bloody lucky to have you."

Brienne scoffs into her drink, disbelief written across her features, "Right. Of course he would have."

"If he was inclined at all towards your sex at all, he would have," Jaime says adamantly. "Of_ course_ he would have. Brienne, you're...you're-"

He trails off then, because she is the one who lost this round and it's not his turn to be confessing any secrets, or declaring all the reasons he thinks she's perfect like some soft singer.

"I'm what?" Brienne asks, defiant and terrified all at once, but staring him right in the eye with her dazzling blue ones.

He stares back at her and finds himself drowning in her eyes. Hells, he's going to do it. He's going to start babbling like some lovesick fool and rid himself of the last shreds of dignity he possesses. He's going to tell her.

Damn Renly. Damn the drink. And damn those eyes.

"Gods, Brienne, you're-"

"Ready for more, are ye?" asks the bar wench, skipping up to their table cheerfully interrupting them.

Jaime's shoulders sag with relief. The serving girl eyes their empty glasses, smiling. "Sure are goin' through them fast tonight! Ye'll have us cleaned out by mornin' at this rate."

"Gods yes," Jaime says, seizing a flagon from her hand and drinking deeply.

"_Thank you_," Brienne says pointedly, sliding a coin towards the server.

"Yeah. Right. Thanks," Jaime says, trying to cover his rudeness unsuccessfully.

"Enjoy," she says, flouncing off unconcernedly.

"Right, wench," Jaime says loudly, glad the subject has been haulted. "What say we raise the stakes a bit with a new game?"

"But I want to keep play-"

"Brienne, my conscience will no longer allow me to keep annihilating you at such an alarming rate. It's unchivalrous. Let's switch to something you have a chance at winning."

"And what might that be?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.

"A race!" Jaime beams. "First one to drain their glass, wins. And if _you_ win, my lady, I shall make up for this terrible inequality between us by telling you _ten_ secrets. Good ones."

"And what if _you_ win?" she asks, made deeply suspicious by his generous offer.

"Fear not, my lady, for I am humble and ask for little. The honor of a dance is all I would require."

"No," Brienne says flatly.

"What?" Jaime asks, stunned at her blunt response.

"I don't dance."

"Don't dance?" he asks benignly. "Or _won't _dance, because you're a coward?"

He's become a veritable expert in Brienne-manipulation by now. It's almost too easy.

Predictably, her eyes flash with anger. "_Fine_, Lannister. Let's do this. On three?"

"On three," Jaime grins.

**A/N: **Reviews are love! Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

After the fourth..._or is it fifth?_ drink, Jaime learns that every time Brienne has told him she 'doesn't dance' or 'hates dancing' was a blatant, bold-faced _lie._

He beats her by a hair and slams his empty glass down with a triumphant,_ "HA!"_ laughing as she slams hers down right after, glaring as little drops of mead dribble down her chin.

"Admirable performance, my lady. Not admirable enough though," he tuts.

Then he snatches her up by the hand and tugs her through the crowded tavern towards the dance floor.

He can feel her reluctance in the way she slowly trudges after him, but she _does_ follow. He glances back at her, green eyes flashing with mirth as they weave through the tavern toward the sound of lively fiddle music and pounding drums.

"I've never been much good at this," she warns, cheeks red in a way that cannot be attributed soley to drink. "Really, Jaime, even when the music's slow. If you truly wish to dance I am sure you could ask one of the-"

"Shh," he says, putting a finger to her lips. "I don't want to dance with a bloody serving wench. I want to dance with _you_," he says earnestly, eyes locked with hers.

He takes her hand in his and gently lifts it up, placing it on his shoulder. She hesitates for a moment, her fingers flexing tensely before allowing them to rest softly on his shoulder, her thumb brushing against the skin of his neck.

He's pleasantly surprised by the tingle that runs down his spine at her touch.

He takes her other hand in his good one and places his stump on her hip. He feels a flicker of shame as he takes in the ugly sight of it there.

He hasn't tried to dance with a woman since the loss of his hand, but if ever there was a woman who wouldn't care about such a thing, it was this one; taller than he is with broad shoulders and horsey face, but the kindest person he's ever met. He can scarcely believe they're standing here.

"Ready?" he asks her, grinning like a fool.

"I su-suppose," she says uncertainly. He feels her trembling slightly in his arms. "But really, Jaime, I'm quite clums-"

"Hush, wench. I've seen your footwork. If you dance half as well as you fight, you'll be alright. Now just see if you can put your bloody need to _compete_ aside for a moment and allow me lead, would you?" he smirks into her ear and delights at the slight shudder that runs through her, the obvious hitch of her breath and the way she leans into him a little bit more.

"Let's just get this over with," she mutters, her flush apparent even in the low tavern light.

The band is playing a fast song, and Jaime's glad. It's cheerful and light and matches his mood. So much of the weight from his shoulders has been lifted this night, and he's ready to enjoy this for all it's worth.

They make a strange pair, to be sure.

Jaime is quite drunk and happier than he's been in a long time, and before long he's spinning the wench about wildly. She is certainly _not_ the most graceful woman he's ever danced with, and she's less sober than he is. They aren't clumsy but neither are they shy.

After a few moments of awkward uncertainty, Brienne has given herself over to the moment. She allows him to twirl her and rotate them about the floor at a lively pace, looking more free and content than he's ever seen her.

The other dancing couples, made up of dainty bar wenches and their companions give them a wide berth.

Their movements are wild and neither of them is slight of frame.

Jaime barely notices the looks they are receiving.

Brienne laughs every time he twirls her around and the sound is nicer even than the music they're dancing to. And even though he has to stretch his arm up higher than he would for any other woman he's ever known in order to twirl her, he would rather be dancing with her here right now than anywhere else in the world.

Sometimes he spins her too fast, and she stumbles into him. She clutches onto him with both hands to steady herself and their bodies press together indecently. When she falls against him, they tend to linger there longer than strictly necessary, her mouth pressed against his neck as she laughs against it, making the hairs stand on end and driving him wild.

He breathes in her smell when she stumbles up against him, and once he might have even kissed her hair, but his head is too unfocused from the drink and the dancing to process it and he's left wondering if it really happened or he just imagined it did.

For a long time, they whirl about, laughing, touching and allowing the world and their troubles to slip away.

The terms of their deal had only been for one dance, but the band has played at least four songs by the time they reach the point of exhaustion and have to stumble off the dance floor, still holding hands and laughing breathlessly.

Their table has been claimed in their absence, so they find a corner to stand in, still grinning like idiots and shining with sweat.

Their server brings over another round, and on this drink _(sixth? seventh_?) Jaime learns that Brienne is a sentimental and downright weepy drunk.

"We really did it, Jaime," she says, and he leans in closer to hear her over the music and chatter. There are only inches between them and his lips quirk again at the obvious slurring in her speech. "We saved her. She's home. That poor girl is home at last and she can finally begin to heal after all she's been through. Sometimes I still can't believe it, but we_ did_ it."

"_You_ did it, Brienne," he says softly, tugging at a strand of her hair. "I was just along for the ride."

She steps back and gasps, outrage wrought across her features and he drops his hand, wondering if he's being over-familiar.

"Not- _not_ _true_, Jaime! Not true at _all._ I could not have done it without you." she reaches up her arms, seizing him the shoulders and shaking him to drive her point home. She's enormous and strong as an ox, but rather than being alarmed, Jaime feels nothing but amusement and infatuation at her earnest shaking.

"You're a _brave_ man, Jaime Lannister. A good man," she says, right up in his face and far closer than she would ever be while sober. "You have done heroic and selfless things in your life! You have been a knight worthy of songs. Many would have given up after all you've been through, but you've charged on and you have done good. The world may not know it, but_ I do_, and if anyone ever tries to say different I will- I will beat them bloody."

Brienne is so sincere and adamant that there are actually tears welling in her eyes as she shakes him. Jaime's amusement at her fierce, sloppy praises melt away as he realizes how truly touched by her words he is. There might be actually lump forming in his throat... but that would be stupid. He clears his throat and takes a little step back, not able to stand the earnest way those blue eyes are staring at him.

"Now I know you've had too much to drink," he mutters, embarrassed. "You're being bloody _nice_ to me," he grins, cuffing her under the chin in an attempt break the intensity of the mood.

The outrage returns her face for a wholly different reason now.

"What? I'm _always_ nice to you!" she cries.

"And she's a drunken liar too!" he says with a laugh.

"I'm _not_ a liar and I'm_ not_ drunk," she pouts, hitting him on the chest with each word. Brienne is not putting her full strength into the blows, for which Jaime is grateful, but he catches one of her fists in his good hand and holds it hard against his chest to make her stop.

"You're hitting me as we speak, wench. Some might consider that _not nice_."

She resists the hold he has on her hand, tugging against him for a moment, before relaxing and falling still, her hand resting on his hard chest.

"Alright," Brienne concedes. "Perhaps I'm not _always_ nice to you. But you must admit, you don't always make it easy to be. You're insufferable... and you're usually mean to me _first_."

She bites her lip at that, looking a little hurt, like she's calling up memories of his many barbed insults.

Jaime feels himself stirring with guilt.

She is right, of course. Though they've developed a fierce friendship since their encounter with Lady Stoneheart, so many moons ago, he has never _quite_ learned to control his tongue, and sometimes he says hurtful things without thinking, forgetting how fragile she is beneath all that armor.

More than once along the road, he's said unthinking, cruel things that would make Brienne fall silent and expressionless, off-hand, rude things that made Sansa Stark glare at him from behind Tully blue eyes for days for the sake of her friend.

"You know I never _mean_ it, don't you?" he asks softly, his voice hoarse. He steps closer, staring at her and willing her to believe it.

She shrugs. "Do I?"

"You _ought_ to. I've got a harsh tongue, Brienne. It's a Lannister trademark. Been bred into us for generations, you know. But I never mean it. For gods' sake, you mean the bloody _world_ to me, wench," he says and instantly cringes at how stupid it sounds.

But Brienne isn't cringing. She's staring at him with those big blue eyes that are filled with disbelief.

"I...I do?"

_Does she really not know? _

"Of course you do," he says, taking her hand in his almost subconsciously, running his thumb along her palm. "Do you think I'd have followed you all the way up to this frozen hell if you _didn't?_ It was cold enough to freeze the balls off an auroch in the bleeding south when we left. There's no one else could drag me up here but _you_, Brienne. "

"Oh," she says, still seeming a little bit stunned. Her other hand is still on his chest and she begins to run her fingers across it absently, smiling softly.

He ought not to be surprised, because she's been a great deal more forward in her touches since their whole drunken celebration began, but he still finds himself jumping a bit as her fingers graze the flesh his partially unlaced jerkin reveals. She gazes at him shyly, cheeks red as she softly says, "Well you...you mean the world to me too, Jaime."

Warmth courses through him at her words and touch.

She's looking at him with clear desire burning in her eyes. She trails a hand down his chest, and her tongue flickers out to wet her lips.

She _wants_ him to kiss her.

His mind is a raging, battling storm. Voices of reason battle to be heard over the lust and desire clouding his already fuzzy mind.

_Now is not the time. She's not herself. She's drunk._

_Perhaps she truly feels something for you as well, and has just been doing a good job of guarding it all this time, but that can be figured out on the morrow._

_Now that you've seen her with her walls down, you can try to break them down another time. __**Slowly**__. When she's sober._

_She'll let you in, in due time, if you do it right and treat her with the respect she deserves._

The reasonable voices fought valiantly for as long as they could, but with Brienne staring at him and running her fingers over his chest like that, the poor bastards never really stood a chance.

Soon enough, the voices of need and desire are making their case, louder and more earnestly.

_She wants it now and so do I._

_Why _shouldn't_ I kiss her?_

I_'ll be good to her. I'll be kind. And I'll kiss her for a thousand nights to come if she'll have me._

_I've waited long enough for a bloody sign and now I've got a hundred of them._

"Jaime," she whispers, as the gap between their mouths grows smaller. His guilt dissipates more with every step. Her eyes flicker closed in anticipation.

_She __**wants**__ this. She wants me to kiss her._

Just as he is about to press his lips against hers, to give her the full, passionate kiss he's been holding back for months, Brienne's eyes snap open and she takes a giant leap back, a hand clapping over her mouth.

_Seven hells_, he thinks, disappointed.

Then something in his fuzzy mind clicks and his eyes widen too.

"Gods, Brienne, are you...are you going to be _sick_?"

Her hand still over her mouth, she gives him a wide-eyed nod.

"Let's get you outside then. Come on," he says, tugging her quickly through the crowd, which begins to willingly part for them as the tavern's patrons realize two large, armed knights are plundering through with no signs of slowing down.

**Reviews are love! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all the encouraging reviews! I give thee: The Final Chapter! **

They burst out of the tavern and into the frigid night. They barely make it past the oak doors when Brienne bends over and begins to retch.

Jaime cringes, holding her shoulders to keep her steady as...five...six? flagons of mead come up splattering the snow.

He bends over as well, whispering soothing words in her ear and keeping her hair out of her eyes with his good hand.

"There now," he says quietly. "Go on, let it all out, there's a good girl."

She stands up at one point, wiping her mouth and looking agonized, tears making her blue eyes shine in the starlight.

"Jaime," she wince. "This is _horrible_. Gods, how_ dreadful_. I can't b-"

But then she hunches over and retches again, splattering his boots as she continues getting rid of the excess of drink.

"I know," he soothes, barely noticing the boots as he strokes her straggly hair, keeping it out of her face. "I know. It's terrible. But it'll pass. You'll be alright. But I know it's horrible. I wasn't more than thirteen the first time I went through it. It's alright," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"The _first_ time? Gods, how could you _ever_ drink again after-" a pause, and some more vomiting- "after going through this? It's _horrible_. I am never touching this stuff ag-"

She stops again, hunches over and Jaime chuckles, "That's what they all say, wench. That's not an oath many manage to keep."

"Well, I intend to," she says, standing up and wiping her mouth. "That was dreadful."

"I know," Jaime says, sympathetic but grinning. "I'm sorry."

"I think I'm ready to go back in," she mutters, but Jaime shakes his head.

"Let's give it some time, wench. The fresh air will do you good," he says and takes her by the hand.

They wander around the side of the tavern and reach the stables. They spend a few minutes there, patting the horses, leaning up against the stable walls and talking about nothing.

Then they find a doorway that's been cleared of snow and sit in it for a spell, side by side, Jaime's arm draped around her, her head resting on his shoulder as they look up at the clear night sky, dabbled with countless hundreds of stars.

They sit there quietly for a while, pressed close for warmth.

Jaime, still dizzy from drink, plays absentmindedly with her tangled straw hair as Brienne makessoft, sleepy, sounds of contentment.

The whole thing is so bloody nice that Jaime needs to break the silence to make sure she thinks so too. He feels responsible for the evening, as it was his stupid plan and his stupid drinking games that brought to them here.

"What do you say, wench? Not a bad night, eh? Despite the fact that you've decorated the snow outside with half the mead from this tavern?"

He cringes at his utter lack of tact or romanticism.

_Should have kept your bloody mouth shut, Lannister. Let the bloody moment speak for itself._

Fortunately, Brienne doesn't look embarrassed or angry at his blunt description. True, she pulls out of his embrace a little and turns to face him. She rolls her big blue eyes and shakes her head at him.

But then she smiles and looks wholly sincere as she says, "No, Jaime. Not a bad night. Not at all."

His stomach does a peculiar flip at the way she's looking at him.

"A bloody _brilliant_ night, one might even say," he muses, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"One might," Brienne replies, tight-lipped but clearly amused.

"Would _you_?" he presses.

She lets out such a bark of laughter that he jumps slightly.

"Gods, Jaime, has anyone ever told you you're a very needy drunk?"

He frowns. "I'm not- I'm not bloody _needy_. I just- I think it's- overall- been brilliant and was wondering if you agree."

"Yes, Jaime," she says, somewhat exasperated and like she's talking to a very young child. "I agree."

"Excellent!" he says, jumping to his feet and offering her a hand. "Well, wench. Let's go inside. My bloody balls are freezing off."

She accepts his hand up and they walk back into the tavern without letting go. Jaime leads them to the bar, intending to order multiple glasses of water for them both.

But when the nearest serving wench turns to them, Brienne grins a horsey grin and says, "Two more meads, please."

"_What_?" Jaime gasps, flabbergasted. "_Water_. She meant _water_, miss."

"No I didn't," Brienne says, crinkling her nose at him. "I _meant_ mead."

"Wench, I very explicitly heard you say you were never touching the stuff again. Remember? You said quite recently, in fact. I believe it may have been stated as you puked your guts up on the front door of this fine establishment! We'll be having _water_, thank you," he says very clearly to the bar wench.

Brienne looks irritated, swiveling on her bar stool to face him.

"I can decide for myself what I want, Jaime. I feel loads better. And you're not my father."

"And thank the bloody gods for that!" Jaime barks. "If I _was_, I'd be beating bloody the man who allowed my maiden daughter to get so blind drunk that she was attempting to order more drink just after being sick as a dog."

"I'll... eh, just come back, shall I?" asks the bar wench awkwardly, with a hint of amusement.

"Yes," Jaime whispers. "With _water_."

He and Brienne fume at each other for a while longer, until Jaime buries his head in his hands in frustration.

"Come now, Brienne. I'm only looking out for you. You'll wish you were dead in the morning if you go on like this. There'll be other nights. Trust me, wench, now that I know what an _excellent_ drinking companion you make, I'll make sure there are _many_ other nights. But for now, let's have some water and go to bed, shall we?"

"Alright," she concedes, just as the server comes back with two tall glasses of water. Brienne downs hers instantly and then blindly reaches for Jaime's which she finishes as well.

He can do nothing but grin at her. For someone so viciously against water, she certainly made short work of it.

He thanks their server and the pair make their way up the stairs to their room.

It's then that he notices how truly uncoordinated they both are. When confronted with the stairs, Jaime is forced to realize that they are both well and truly drunk.

Getting up the steep stairs is a struggle for them both, but there's a fair amount of giggling as they stagger and stumble their way to the top.

He's fairly certain Brienne walks on her hands the last few steps, but he's laughing too hard to focus and confirm it. By the time he realizes, she's already at the top and grinning down at him.

"Can you manage?"

"I think so," he pants, teetering precariously halfway up.

They reach their room and all but fall in the door.

"You were right, Jaime. Gods, I'm_ so_ ready for bed," Brienne mutters, pulling at the drawstring of her breeches and starting to slide them off without a scrap of modesty.

Unfortunately, she forgot the crucial boot-removal step, and her trousers end up in a tangled heap at her feet.

Rather than realizing this misstep and correcting it, she merely shakes her feet about in an attempt to get them off over the boots, grunting in annoyance, before stumbling forward with a little shriek.

Fortunately, she lands right on her bed, facedown. The site of her planted there in her smallclothes, her feet trapped, is a hilarious as it is pitiful.

Jaime laughs himself silly as he makes his way over to lend the poor wench a hand.

"Settle down, you mad wench," he laughs, pressing a hand onto her back as she continues to kick wildly at her stuck breeches. "Turn around before you hurt yourself. Let me help you."

She flips over so she's facing him, sat on the bed and glaring around in frustration.

"There now," Jaime soothes, holding back laughter. "Let me help you."

He squats by the bed, and suddenly all the humor leaves the room as he is confronted with her impossibly long, impossibly bare legs.

Her tunic barely covers her smallclothes and he has a full view of more skin than he has since the baths of Harrenhal.

His breath catches in his throat and he shuts his eyes for a moment, willing himself to be calm.

He slides off a boot slowly as she stares down at him with those incredible eyes of her, and he knows there's no bloody use in fighting the arousal.

His cock begins to stir within the tight confines of his trousers and he scratches at the back of his neck uncomfortably before moving onto the next boot.

When that's done, he slides her breeches off her ankles and cannot resist a glance upwards.

A terrible idea. Now it's all he can do not to start trailing kisses up her legs, past her warm, strong thighs and beyond. He thinks about the untouched flesh there, wonders at how it would feel to kiss her and lick her and scratch his beard against her thighs until she came, shuddering with his name on her lips.

Jaime jumps to his feet at once, hoping to startle those thoughts away.

Not tonight. _Not now_. She's drunk. _You're_ drunk. This isn't the time. Not for a woman like her. She deserves more.

"Right, wench," he says briskly. "Sleep well, then. Goodnight."

"Wait!" Brienne says, seizing his wrist before he can walk away towards his bed on the other side of the room.

"What?" he asks uncertainly, hating the way he's already reacting to her strong touch.

"You could- I mean- it's quite _cold_. You could sleep here... If you wanted."

Jaime stares down at her, quietly. She's lying in the bed now, legs bare and long and rubbing against each other tantalizingly. She's starting to shiver a little and is only trying to get warm, but she's teasing him better than any of King's Landing's finest whores could right now.

He curses his achingly hard cock, and shakes his head.

They've shared a bed before, of course, but that was only ever out of necessity. On the nights where they couldn't find a room with separate beds, and then Brienne was always fully clothed, making an effort to keep as much distance between them as possible.

"I think I'll- think I'll just head over there, wench. It's a rare treat to have a good, real bed to myself these days, you know," he says gruffly. "Ought to take advantage."

"But it's _cold_," she pouts and her bare legs are still exposed, taunting him wildly.

"Get under the bloody covers and you'll be fine," he snaps, heat rising to his cheeks.

He tries to stretch for the blankets, intending to throw them over her, but she still hasn't released his wrist. She stares up at him, blue eyes defiant, and gives a hard tug, pulling him into bed beside her.

Jaime lets out a laugh at her persistence.

"You've always been so bloody stubborn. Shouldn't have expected anything less tonight," he says, shaking his head as she throws the covers over them and boldly drapes his arm around her, letting it settle over her stomach and not letting go.

"Wench, this is a...a terrible idea. You're going to end up knocking _my teeth_ out in the morning," he mumbles into her ear.

He ought to pull away and run for his own bed. This is beyond foolhardy. He shudders to think of a sober Brienne's reaction to his arm draped around her stomach, his hand resting on her hip like it is now, and her wearing nothing but smallclothes below the waist. She'll kill him.

"No I won't!" she mumbles earnestly. "And besides, you danced with me and you held my hair back while I...while I...I won't _hit_ you, Jaime!"

"You say that now," he mutters, but he's already getting sucked in by the warmth, by her smell and by the feel of her strong body pressed against him. She slides a long leg in between his to get it warm, and his already spinning world spins even faster.

"Wait a minute," he says suddenly, sitting up.

His cock is _beyond_ the point of aching right now, and he needs to make sure he can make it through the night.

"What?" she asks, annoyed at his moving away and letting the cold air in. "Jaime. What are you doing?"

"Relax, wench. I've got to take off my bloody boots," he says.

And it's true. She never gave him the chance to.

He removes them, but then he rifles through a bag until he pulls out a very full wineskin. There's no way he's getting through the torment of sleeping- _just_ sleeping- beside Brienne without it. If he doesn't pass out soon, this will be a long and torturous night.

He drains it of wine quickly. It's strong stuff and soon enough he feels a wave of sleepiness starting to hit already.

Thank the gods, he thinks, tossing it aside.

He settles back down beside Brienne, drapes his arm back over her and pulls her close again.

She sighs, content, and he presses a kiss to her exposed neck.

The wine, it seems, has done the trick and soon enough they are both sound asleep, snoring softly in each other's strong arms.

"Jaime! _Jaime_, wake up!" she says loudly in his ear.

It feels like only minutes have passed since he finished that wine, but that can't be, because there's soft light filtering in through the red curtains of their tavern room.

"Hmm?" he mumbles, struggling to take it all in, to remember where he is and how he got here. "What, wench?"

"Did we...did something_ happen_?"

She's sitting up in bed, looking panic-stricken.

"No. No, of course not," he says, sleepily moving into a sitting position beside her. Relief washes over her plain features, and he feels a surprising degree of irritation (and hurt) rise up inside him a he tries to decipher how much of last night actually happened.

He scowls at her. "And what if it _did_, wench? Would that be so bloody dreadful to you, my lady of Tarth?"

He's ashamed of how wounded he sounds, and convinced that if his head wasn't pounding so hard, he might have had some degree of control over this display of weakness.

Brienne frowns. "No...No, of course not," she says, shaking her head.

She still looks bleary-eyed and seems to be talking more to herself than anything as she quietly says, "I'd just be very sorry not to remember any of it, is all."

Then her eyes widen as she realizes what she's said.

Jaime's sure he looks just as surprised, but there's already an expression of _deligh_t forming on his mischievous features as Brienne's expression turns mortified.

"_Would_ you, now?"

"That's not what-" she stutters, looking utterly humiliated. "I didn't mean...I just... Oh gods, I must still be dru-" she doesn't finish her sentence, just throws herself onto her back on the mattress. Groaning, she rolls over to face the wall, covering her face in her hands.

Jaime is grinning.

So it_ wasn't_ just the drink causing all that heat between them last night.

She has thought about it, as he has.

It started _months_ ago for him, this deep and persistant attraction.

At first he'd tried his best to beat the thoughts out of his mind, to dub them absurd and hide them away. He'd soon realized it was futile. She may be big and homely and usually covered in dirt and grime, but he's been longing to touch her for weeks, to trail kisses across her small breasts, down her hard, muscled stomach and further still, to make her cry out his name and fist his hair as he brought her to her full.

Even as he came to accept the attraction, he tried to push it to the back of his mind, convinced that someone as pure as Brienne could never want a tainted crippled wretch such as him.

Even after their trials with Stoneheart and the other horrors they'd faced on the road, Brienne had kept her distance, scowling at him more often than she smiled.

She might trust him with her life, might be willing to die for him, but he also got under her skin on a daily basis and tried her patience endlessly.

He never quite dared to think there could be something here, something they both felt, something they both needed.

But looking at her twisting in humiliation on the bed, too hungover to gather her composure gives Jaime a surge of delight as he realizes at last that he's not alone in this absurd attraction.

Poor, dear Brienne has the blankets over her head, looking for all the world like an overgrown little girl. Her walls have crumbled, and he sees the shy maid beneath them plainly.

The noble parts of Jaime just want to hug her and kiss her hair and tell her it's alright, that he would be sorry not to remember it as well, that a woman like her deserve more and he longs to give it to her.

The _less _noble parts are unable to keep from chuckling affectionately at her misery.

Jaime laughs softly, a bit hoarse from all the drinking and rests his hand on top of the blanket that now covers her completely.

He lets it settle over her hip, which he gives a little shake. "It's alright, wench. It's alright. Sit up and have some water, will you?"

She groans.

"I'm not thirsty. Go away."

"Come now, wench. I'm the one who put you in this state. It would be unconscionable for me to leave you in these trying times," he chuckles. "Have some water."

"I don't care about your _conscience_," she whines, muffled from beneath the blankets, where he can make out her large frame writhing in agony. "I just want to go back to sleep...can't you just... leave me...I hate everyth..."

"Come now," Jaime persists, pulling the blankets away from her bleary face. "Have a drink."

"Ugh, _why_?" Brienne moans, trying to grab back the blankets, which he pulls out of her reach. "Leave me al-"

"Because you're bloody dehydrated and this will make you feel like dying a bit less," he says taking Brienne by the hand and firmly pulling her into a sitting position.

He shoves a flask into her hand and she takes it from him, not meeting his eyes.

She drains it in an instant, sloshing water down her chin in her desperation to rehydrate.

She tosses it aside when she's done and looks as though she's about to throw herself back down to hide. Before she can, Jaime brings his hand up to her wet chin, and the touch makes her freeze.

He grazes his thumb across it, wiping away the water she's spilled on herself. Her mouth falls open slightly, and he knows he can't keep himself away from those lips much longer.

"And _also_, to get rid of your undoubtedly foul morning breath," he adds, and predictably she looks torn between outrage and embarrassment.

She begins to wrench herself out of his grasp, but he holds her steady and says, "So that I can do _this._"

Winking, he brings his mouth against hers in a gentle, fluid motion, applying only the faintest pressure to start with.

The instant his lips brush hers, he knows he wants more, wants it _all._ He finds himself starting to increase the pressure, all the desires that have built up over the months in her company threatening to burst out of him like water from a breaking dam.

He feels his tongue flick out to trail across her bottom lip and knows that if he doesn't stop now, he'll continue deepening this kiss until they've shed their remaining clothes and are going at it like rabbits. It's too much. Too fast.

With considerable effort, Jaime pulls back, wanting to give her the chance to process this and tell him whether it's really something she wants.

Brienne stares at him, open-mouthed, running a finger over her lip, mirroring the path his tongue traced moments before. "Why...why did you do that?"

He reaches out with his left hand to brush a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, then brings it back to her face, cupping her ruined cheek.

"Because you're too bloody good for this world and I've wanted to for longer than I care to admit," he said, kissing her again, this time with increased fervor. He feels her respond this time, cautiously. Her lips press back against his, softly at first. Then she begins to sink into it, to open up to him, her hands coming up to clutch at the fabric on his chest.

Smiling Jaime pulls back, "_And _because you're sober enough to remember it now." He kisses her again, just briefly because he needs to add, "_And _because, even though you're in the middle of the worst hangover of your life, I can't wait another moment to have you."

"Oh," she says simply, before throwing herself at him in a fierce, desperate kiss.

They lie on the bed, kissing like that for most of the morning.

Jaime's cock is desperate to take it further, but his head is still swimming from too much drink and the rest of him is satisfied to waste away the chilly winter morning with tender kissing, running his hand over her body, finding all the places that make her moan and sigh but drawing an invisible line around her waist.

He's waited long enough to have her. He can wait a bit longer.

Wait until his head is clear and he doesn't feel so bloody weak and drained.

To his surprise, after some time, it is _her_ hand that crosses the invisible line, slipping into his unlaced breeches and squeezing him through his smallclothes.

He's more than a little embarrassed at the yelp he lets out at the unexpected touch.

"Right. Right, Brienne," he gasps, starting to pull away from her. "I think it's time we... get ourselves some breakfast. Nice, greasy breakfast."

"What?" she asks, sitting up, looking hurt and confused. "Did I do something wro-"

"Gods no," he says, shaking his head and kissing her briefly. "No, love. Definitely not. It's just- we've got time for that. Time for that when we're not half-dead from too much drink the night before. I want to savor this. I want to savor you. Also, I want bacon. Lots of it. Let's go get some."

Brienne stares at him for a moment and he starts to fear he's hurt that fragile part of her hidden deep down.

Just as he's frantically wondering what he can say to make it right, she's laughing. "Yes, yes, alright. Bacon sounds incredible."

She allows him to tug her to her feet. They putter around the room for a few minutes, finding boots and clothes and stopping often to kiss between steps,finding it hard to pull away from each other for even a moment.

Finally, they're dressed, and together they leave the room. They make their way down the stairs towards the smell of greasy breakfast food, his arm around her, matching grins on their faces.

**THE END**

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